Shattered
by Jawhara
Summary: Sherlock is critically wounded by Moriarty and John has to do an emergency operation. First Sherlock slips into a coma, then recovery proves a lot more difficult than expected.
1. Chapter 1

**Shattered**

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Summary**: Sherlock is critically wounded and John has to do an emergency operation. Recovery proves a lot more difficult than expected.

Sherlock stumbled into their flat.

* * *

John looked up from his newspaper and frowned. Something was wrong with Sherlock; he could feel it without actually seeing something. There was blood on Sherlock's shirt but he was carrying that damn harpoon around with him and the blood was most likely from another pig. He had bags under his eyes, but John new that Sherlock hadn't slept well the last few nights.

Also he was white as a sheet but for Sherlock, that was normal. Then it hit John. The consulting detective was silent. He hadn't uttered a single word since he entered the flat. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine. Better than fine. Really." Sherlock leant heavily against the wall and breathed deeply; he winced visibly and closed his eyes for a second.

John was seriously alarmed. He walked up to his flat mate and got there just in time because Sherlock lost his balance. The doctor managed to catch his friend in time. "Sherlock what is wrong?"

"Nothing. I had a run in with Moriarty, he shot me. I might bleed to death." Only Sherlock could combine those words and still sound extremely bored and unaffected.

"Bloody hell Sherlock!" John nearly yelled at his friend as he dragged him into his bedroom and put him on the bed. He quickly unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and swatted his friend's hands away. "Stop getting in my way Sherlock, I'm trying to help you here!" John was exasperated but he would never, ever let this stop him from helping his flat mate.

The bullet had hit Sherlock only centimeters above his heart, a nearly fatal wound. "I'll call an ambulance; you have to go to the hospital!"

Sherlock found enough strength to grab John's arm and keep him from calling anyone. "No!" He wheezed the word out and it ended with a violent coughing fit. "No hospital, no ambulance!"

"Don't be stupid Sherlock." Sherlock grew whiter at an alarming rate.

"You're a doctor, repair me!" Sherlock's breathing grew shorter and the consulting detective had to close his eyes again.

"I'm not prepared to operate under such conditions; you need to go to the ICU!" He gently pried Sherlock's fingers off his arm. Sherlock's resistance was nearly not existent.

"You… waste… valuable…time… arguing." Sherlock coughed again and spit some blood. "Get it out of me! You are an army doctor, you can do this!" He closed his eyes again but this time he didn't open them.

John knew he had no time to loose. He thanked god that he kept a sterilized set of surgical instruments in the flat. He disinfected his hands as quickly as possible, put gloves on and set to work. He had operated in the field under worse circumstances but never on someone who was as dear to him as Sherlock. It wasn't an easy operation and John asked himself a couple of times in between why he hadn't simply overridden Sherlock's whish and called for an ambulance. Truth be told, he just couldn't act against his friends wish, even though he knew that it would have been better. The wound was dangerous and difficult enough to operate in a well-equipped ICU but at home, without any blood replenishments it was a wonder if it worked at all.

The doctor forced himself to focus on the operation; he tried to forget that it was Sherlock lying in the bed, white as a sheet, eyes closed, consciousness lost. He had no idea at all how much blood Sherlock had lost before coming home and he lost enough during the operation.

John was finished two hours after Sherlock had stumbled into the flat. He had finally removed all arterial clamps and sewn the wound back up. Since he lacked any blood replenishment he had been forced to clamp every artery and hope for the best.

John left Sherlock's side for a few minutes while he cleaned himself up again. He dragged a chair next to the bed and sat down, carefully watching Sherlock sleep. At least his breathing seemed regular but he was so pale, had lost so much blood. The doctor could honestly not say if Sherlock was going to survive the night but if he did there were a few questions he would have to answer.

John grabbed a blanket and a book; he was not going to sleep tonight.

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**A/N.:** So… I hope you guys like it. Please don't complain too much about medical details, I am not a doctor and I do realize that an operation like this wouldn't work under those circumstances, but hey, it's fanfiction for a reason. If you liked it please let me know. Stay tuned for the next chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by darkness. He couldn't move and he might have panicked had he been a little bit more in touch with his emotional side. Now, however, he waited, more or less patiently, for the darkness to dissolve. It didn't.

He could hear nothing and the absolute absence of any kind of noise was deeply disturbing. Suddenly there was... something... weak and in the distance, but it was coming closer. It was laughter, not the nice one you expect from a friend, but evil and full of malice. Sherlock shuddered, he knew that laugh.

Moriarty appeared in front of him, dressed impeccable as always. He smiled, like a cat playing with its pray. "Ah the mighty Sherlock," he purred. "All alone in the dark?" He sat down and played with the walking stick that had suddenly appeared in his hands. "There is a way to end this, you know?"

Sherlock blinked rapidly. Where was John? Why was it still dark, except for the dim light glow behind his arch enemy? And why couldn't he move? He opened his mouth to reply but... nothing. Why couldn't he speak?

"It is utterly boring, isn't it?" Moriarty grimaced. "Have you figured it out yet?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"But of course you can't answer me," Moriarty sighed and allowed his head to fall down to his chest. "How boring. Bereft of your ability to speak, I miss our witty conversations."

Sherlock glared and Moriarty laughed. "It's in your head, you know?" he asked conversationally. "I am in your head. It means that I am very important to you Sherlock, I am really touched." He put his hand over his heart and winked at the consulting detective.

Sherlock frowned. If it was in his head why didn't he have control over the situation?

Moriarty shrugged. "I can't answer that. Seriously, I don't have a clue what goes on in that strange head of yours. So similar to mine but still so different."

Apparently Moriarty had no problem understanding Sherlock's thoughts. The consulting criminal looked at him angrily. "There is no reason to insult me, you know? I could simply disappear and leave you all alone in the darkness. Wouldn't you love that?" He put extra stress on 'love'.

Sherlock shuddered. He hated the dark. He hadn't told anyone about the incident in his youth that had led to this fear, but Moriarty was in his head and he seemed to know everything.

"Oh yes I do." Moriarty smiled gleefully. He offered his hand to Sherlock. "If you take my hand we can end this."

Sherlock regarded the hand uncertainly.

"Oh yes, we you are going to die," answered Moriarty. "But it must intrigue you, I am sure. Death. You have never experienced it; you don't know what awaits you. Isn't that more than one can say about everything that awaits you back there?"

Sherlock was still reluctant and Moriartys smile grew. "John has already abandoned all hope. I think he is ready to proclaim you dead, so why don't you do him a favor and come with me? The greatest adventure you have ever embarked upon lies in front of you, all you have to do is take my hand."

Moriarty had made a mistake, he had mentioned John. And John represented everything that kept Sherlock bound to the world. John had shown him what friendship meant and it had only been after the doctor moved into the flat that Sherlock had finally stopped taking drugs and destroying himself in the process. It had been John who taught him that other people were worth something, that he was not alone in the world. And it was the thought of never seeing John again that kept the consulting detective from accepting the outstretched hand.

"Don't be stupid Sherlock," Moriarty glared at him. "If you go back, what awaits you? Mrs. Hudson is going to criticize you about everything, John is going to insult you and keep writing about your failures on his blog. And Lestrade? He will be laughing with the whole Yard behind your back whenever you do something that goes against their precious social conventions."

Mrs. Hudson. The woman that had replaced the mother Sherlock had never really known. Who was kind enough to care for him, to fix him something to eat even though she loved to stress that she was only his landlady, not his housekeeper. And Lestrade, the faithful detective that allowed Sherlock to be part of several investigations even though the consulting detective behaved anything except thankful.

"And what about Mycroft? The brother who thinks that he has a right to interfere with your life whenever it suits him? Anderson and Sally who hate you?" Moriarty realised that he was fighting a losing battle, his voice grew higher and he talked faster.

Mycroft. He didn't hate Mycroft, never had and never could. His brother had always looked out for him, maybe in ways that Sherlock hadn't appreciated or realised, but he had still tried. There was resentment between them, no one could deny that, but Mycroft was the last of his family. Sherlock didn't love his brother, but being Sherlock meant never loving anything. Deep down however he cared about him.

Sally and Anderson were annoying, that was true. However, and Sherlock would never tell anyone that, he enjoyed annoying them; it was easy and always fun.

"Do you know why you are going to take my offer anyway?" Moriarty smiled and it made Sherlock feel very, very uneasy. "You might have learned to care about people since you met John, but it isn't enough for you. You still need the adventure. You are bored by ordinary people, and that's what they all are. I am offering to show you something completely new here!"

Sherlock was suddenly capable of moving his arms. He stared at Moriartys hand and slowly lifted his own.

And then they were no longer alone. John had appeared, out of nowhere. "Are you insane Sherlock?" The doctor came forward and shoved Moriarty aside. "Taking any offer from Moriarty? Come on, you are more intelligent than that!"

Sherlock looked at both of them.

"We care about you Sherlock, we all do! Everyone visited you in the past hours, everyone. Even Sally and she left flowers. Mycroft was there, he sat with you for hours, and he even switched off his phone! We love you Sherlock. It is not your time to go! Take my hand, I can bring you back!" John offered his hand.

"Don't listen to him. How often have you complained about John's obvious lack of adventurous traits? About how he holds you back? It is time to change that, to come with me!" Moriarty stepped forward and shot John an evil look.

Sherlock glanced at them both and slowly lifted his hand.

* * *

John woke up in his chair and looked at his best friend. Sherlock was still very pale, his breathing regular. He had been like this for the last 48 hours and John desperately hoped for any kind of change. Sherlock's eyes were moving under the lids, it looked like the consulting detective was battling something in his dreams. John took Sherlock's lifeless hand and squeezed it hard. "You can fight it Sherlock," he whispered. "I know you can."

And finally Sherlock opened his eyes.

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**A/N.:** Thank you all for your reviews, you are amazing and you make me happy! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well, and if you did, please tell me so.

For anyone who loves this story but isn't that willing to write a review, I have a new suggestion. Send me a smiley. Check out my profile to see the smiley table.

I tend to answer my reviewers over the private messaging, but I want to thank those who I can't message right here: Warm-Glow and IamDoctorWholocked, thank you for your reviews!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"What is it with you and hospitals anyway?"

No answer.

John sighed. "Sherlock… I'm a doctor; I can tell you're awake."

Still, nothing. John growled silently. "Don't you think you owe me an answer?" 48 hours had passed since Sherlock woke up the last time, five days since the operation had been done. Back then the consulting detective hadn't uttered a single word and John thought that this was caused by exhaustion. Now however Sherlock should have been as talkative as usually.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. The doctor was surprised, usually there was so much going on behind those animated green eyes but now they seemed dull and empty. "Can't you find someone else to bother? You've ignored Stamford for far too long, go and talk to him."

"Stole my phone again, have you?" John said lightheartedly expecting Sherlock to answer something akin to 'If you leave it out in the open for everyone to see it is hardly stealing, isn't' it?' However Sherlock kept silent and avoided Johns gaze.

The doctor moved his chair next to Sherlock and the consulting detective turned away from him.

John cleared his throat and Sherlock flinched slightly. "Talk to me Sherlock. Why don't you like hospitals?" He had never noticed it before, but now, after Sherlock's refusal to go to a hospital John remembered all the less than life threatening injuries Sherlock had obtained over the time of their friendship. Not once had he visited the ER, even though anyone else would have.

Minutes passed and neither man said a word. John was a very patient and determined man and he was not going to give up. He grabbed a book from Sherlock's nightstand and wondered for a minute how anyone could read something titled 'Quantum Enigma – Physics Encounter Consciousness'. He started to read the introduction but he couldn't focus on the technical babble, not with Sherlock being eerily quiet.

"Bad memories." It hadn't been louder than a whisper and John wasn't sure if Sherlock really said something until the consulting detective carried on. "First time when I was four years old." Sherlock still faced the wall; he spoke quietly, more to himself than to John. "They couldn't figure out what to do with me, so they had me tested. I think they thought I was crazy." He chuckled darkly. "They didn't tell me what was going on, I had no idea."

It was not difficult for John to guess who 'they' were.

_Four-year old Sherlock Holmes was yelling for Mycroft, always Mycroft, never his parents. He struggled against the strong arms that held him and kicked the nurse every time she came near him. He had no idea what was going on and why he was in the hospital. _

"_Can someone calm the kid down?" _

"_I'm trying to Doctor." _

_Another nurse was called into the room, together they held Sherlock down and the doctor injected him with a calmative agent. _

_Never before felt the child that terrified, or that alone. _

John had no idea what to say.

"I ended up there a few times because of my addiction," Sherlock continued, seemingly lost in his memories.

_Twenty three year old Sherlock Holmes looked like a ghost. His skin was pale, his face gaunt, his ribs clearly visible and his eyes haunted. He'd been in and out of the hospital for the last three weeks. _

_He drifted in and out of consciousness; nightmares plagued his sleep, often he couldn't quite differ between dream and reality. _

_One nightmare in particular had been very bad, he dreamed about a drug deal gone bad because Mycroft showed up. The drug dealer drew his gun and his brother was lying on the ground, bleeding, before Sherlock could do something. The dream returned often and Sherlock dreaded falling asleep because of it. _

_Still he fell asleep. He dreamed 'that dream' again, but this time it was different. This time the drug dealer didn't point his gun at Mycroft he pointed it at Sherlock. And for the first time the young man wasn't unable to do something, he grabbed a stone and threw it at the drug dealer with all his strength._

_Someone yelled and everything cleared in front of Sherlock's eyes. A nurse stared at him in shock; her right arm was bleeding where she'd been hit by the porcelain plate that Sherlock had thrown. She ran from the room and Sherlock was left alone, confused. He looked at the pieces on the floor, shattered, just like himself. _

John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, he felt his friend stiffen. "Those times are behind you Sherlock. Don't let them haunt you."

Sherlock didn't answer but he relaxed slightly.

"Will you tell me what happened between you and Moriarty?"

No answer.

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock! I need to know what happened!"

Again, nothing. John felt like banging his head against the wall. Whatever had happened, it caused Sherlock to avoid him and that couldn't be good. Determined to get an answer he picked his chair up and moved around the bed to confront Sherlock.

John smiled when he realised that Sherlock had simply fallen asleep again. Maybe things weren't as bad as they seemed. But somehow John doubted that, he had a really bad feeling about the whole situation and the worst was that he could usually count on his feelings to be right.

**A/N.**: There's a new one. I hope you like it as well. Your reviews mean a lot to me, thank you very much and keep up the good work!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Sherlock had a very distinctive sleeping habit during his recovery. He slept for seven hours during the night, then drank something and slept another five hours. During that time he seemed oblivious to anything. After that he was lucid for a short while and John had a very small window when he could talk to him. It wasn't that late yet and John settled in the chair next to Sherlock's bed that he thought of as 'his' chair by now.

No matter how often Sherlock told John that he was neither attentive nor a good observer the consulting detective still knew that it wasn't true. Yes, John's ability to deduce was in no way near to Sherlock's but the doctor was a lot better than most other people. It had alarmed the consulting detective how quickly John became able to read his thoughts in his movements, or his feelings in his eyes. It gave him little pleasure that he could fake sleep well enough for the doctor to buy it, but it allowed Sherlock to think without the overly concerned doctor disturbing his thought process every other minute. He was a master of keeping silent when he had to, even though he hated it. Sherlock's thoughts slowly turned to his encounter with Moriarty.

Five days ago:

_Sherlock left Barts after an especially tedious session with an unconventional clump of dirt that he found under his shoe that morning. John told him that he was paranoid but there was something about that piece of dirt, it simply didn't fit in with the rest. None of his usual methods had revealed anything but he still had hope. _

_He held his hand out to stop a cab when his phone rang. 'Care to dance? M' Sherlock immediately turned around, observed his surroundings and remembered anything that had happened today within seconds. He came up with nothing, unless… Usually, Sherlock did an exceptionally good job at turning Molly's chatter out but that didn't mean he couldn't remember every word the woman had said. "I went dancing with Jim before he disappeared, the Pineapple Club. There's a charming little back alley there…" A smile spread on Sherlock's lips as he stopped the cab. _

_The consulting detective arrived at the Pineapple Club exactly twenty minutes later. _

"_You made it," Moriarty appeared from the shadows. He stood slightly hunched over with his hands in his pockets. "And here I thought that you weren't one for romantic meetings." He gestured around and grinned. "Look at us, in a back alley, near a club…" _

_Sherlock's eyes narrowed. _

"_You couldn't resist checking, could you?" Moriarty draw a gun and turned it on Sherlock. "You had to know if you were right."_

"_I am always right."_

"_And still so stupid" Moriarty released the safety with a soft click. _

_Sherlock calculated his distance from Moriarty, his own speed, the force of a hit with the lone pipe laying on the floor, the likelihood of evading a bullet and Moriarty's love for talking. He smiled._

"_What? What could you possibly find amusing about your own death?" _

"_You!" Sherlock launched forward to reach the pipe when a shot rang through the alley. The consulting detective found himself on the floor gasping for breath. _

_Moriarty put the weapon away and knelt next to Sherlock. "I didn't think that you would actually go for the pipe. That was the obvious choice. But then what would life be without the small surprises." He put pressure on the wound and Sherlock gasped in pain. "I didn't even plan on shooting you today, but you do provoke something in me." He slowly put gloves on before hauling Sherlock upright. The consulting detective couldn't put up any resistance; he was too preoccupied with keeping conscious. _

_Moriarty carefully put Sherlock in his car. "I do however not want you to die today." The consulting criminal slowly pulled out of the alley. "I am sure our good doctor is capable of fixing you. He has plenty of experience with those kinds of wounds." _

_Sherlock did all he could not to pass out during the car drive. He tried to keep aware of his surroundings but it became increasingly difficult. He was surprised, even though he didn't show it, when they reached 221B Bakerstreet. _

_Moriarty helped Sherlock out of the car and placed him in front of the door. He put his head right next to Sherlock's ear and whispered: "Do you know why I won't kill you yet? It is much more fun to see those suffer who care for you. I might start with dear John, you and him are so close."_

_Sherlock made it into his flat after Moriarty left._

He had to push John away. It was the only solution his highly evolved brain could come up with, the only way to keep John safe. Sherlock was surprised about the feeling that settled in his stomach after coming to that conclusion. He wasn't sure what it was but he felt seriously uncomfortable.

The five hours were almost over. John put his book down and looked at his pale friend. Whatever caused Sherlock to pretend that he was asleep for one more hour, he obviously needed it and John was not going to rush him into anything.

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**A/N.:** Guys… about 100 people read the last chapter and only two reviewed, I have to ask, was the chapter that bad?  
Anyway, here is the next one, I hope you like it better and I am looking forward to reading your reviews.  
I have my big molecular genetics exam on monday, wish me luck! :-)


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Where is he, John?"

John pointed at the locked door.

Mycroft frowned. "Sherlock never locks himself into his room, not as a small child and not as a rebellious teenager, he never…" The older man trailed off and played with his cup of tea.

John couldn't help but ask. "Sherlock was a rebellious teenager?"

Mycroft shrugged. "He and father didn't get along. Father had no idea how to deal with a child like him; he had no patience whatsoever. Why do you think Sherlock began taking drugs?"

The two men were silent for a minute. "How long has he been in there?"

"The last time I saw him was two days ago. I assume he slips by me when I am asleep."

"How do you know he's still in there?"

John smiled. A soft, lamenting tune could be heard from behind the door. "Every once in a while he plays. I don't recognize it; I assume he plays whatever comes to mind."

Mycroft had a faint smile on his lips. "No. He is not playing random melodies."

John arched an eyebrow. "How do you know?"

Mycroft turned to the doctor; he looked lost in an old memory. "It is nearly impossible to truly understand what Sherlock is feeling. One of the few ways to know is through his music. Those melodies… he used to play them whenever he got into a row with father, whenever he didn't know what to do."

"Maybe you should talk to him."

"What makes you think he'll listen? You are the one he confines in these days, if he ignores you what chance do I have?"

John pondered for a moment how to rip Mycroft out of his self-imposed inferiority complex. "You are his brother for god's sake. Don't you care?"

Usually, John would describe Mycroft as phlegmatic, emotionally distant, maybe even incapable of really showing even the tiniest bit of feelings. Right now he realised that he'd been wrong. Mycroft's eyes shown with anger. "Of course I care! Every time he got high on drugs… I cared. Every time he gets shot, stabbed, mugged, arrested or poisoned I cared." He got up and started pacing up and down in anger. "You only know him for a few months, try caring about him for your whole life and you'll realise how impossible it is to keep that up!"

"We are all capable of carrying enormous burden for those we care about."

Mycroft stood with his back to John. "A beautiful sentence. However, I find that those who mold us with their wisdom seldomly have to apply it themselves."

John could see that the elder Holmes was upset, most likely this was the first time he actually showed it. "Will you try and talk to him?"

Mycroft didn't react for a few minutes, then he nodded slowly. The elder Holmes knocked at the door, but Sherlock didn't acknowledge it, he didn't even interrupt his playing for a second. Mycroft exhaled slowly, took a paperclip out of his pocket and picked the lock within seconds.

John had to smile. It was easy to forget, but he was suddenly reminded of something Sherlock had said about his brother a long time ago: "Mycroft? He really isn't what he seems to be. His abilities surpass my own by lengths, he's just too lazy to do anything by himself. I am not joking when I claim that he is the British government, but I swear to god he could rule the world if he would only find an inch of motivation in him." Apparently, worrying about his younger brother unleashed said inch.

Sherlock must have been extremely distracted; he didn't even hear Mycroft entering his room. The elder Holmes closed the door behind him, even though he really did like Doctor Watson, there were a few conversations that had to stay within the family. "Sherlock."

The soft spoken word wasn't nearly enough to distract Sherlock from his music. Mycroft crossed the room and entered Sherlock's field of vision, his brother didn't flinch or acknowledge him in any other way.

Two, three minutes passed before Mycroft acted. He snatched the violin out of his brothers' hands.

They stared at each other in silence. Mycroft waited for Sherlock to rant on about how no one was supposed to touch his violin, he really didn't like anyone doing that.

"Fitting."

That, Mycroft didn't expect. "What?"

Sherlock flopped down onto the bed and gestured at Mycroft. "You gave it to me and now you are taking it away from me. One cannot hold onto the few things in life that one considers precious. Fitting."

Mycroft still didn't really understand. "What has gotten into you Sherlock? This is not the first time that you were shot. To be honest it isn't even the first time you nearly died. And you lock your room? I know you hate that since father locked you in the basement for two days."

Sherlock had been twelve years old when he walked into a business meeting between his father and a few of his rich clients. Sherlock had taken one look at them and declared that two of them had an affair with each other, another one was embezzling funds and a third one was currently plotting to take over the company he was working for. The clients accused Holmes Sr. of sharing secrets with his son, because they couldn't believe that a twelve year old was capable of figuring something like that out on his own. Neither did their father. He was convinced that Sherlock had rummaged through his private desk, and that was an unforgivable crime. He had locked Sherlock in the basement without telling Mycroft about it, the elder Holmes brother had been under the impression that Sherlock was spending the weekend with their mother. It was shortly after the divorce had been finalized and it was a plausible explanation. He only realised that Sherlock was missing after his mother called to speak to both her boys, and he found his little brother scared, dehydrated and hungry in the basement.

Sherlock looked up from his bed. "What do you want me to say?"

Now that was totally untypical behavior. "I don't want you to say anything. I want you to be you. John wants you to come back to normal."

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but then he remembered the last words Moriarty had whispered before he left Sherlock on his own doorstep. "John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade… wasn't life easier before anyone cared about you?"

"I am me Mycroft!" Sherlock spat the words out as he stared at his brother with malice. "You could never understand me, you never tried. You made it clear that your life is better when it doesn't involve me. Get out!"

John had heard nothing of the exchange between the brothers except for the last shouted words. "Get out." Sure enough Mycroft left the flat a few seconds later without so much as sparing a glance in John's direction.

Silence engulfed John for a minute before Sherlock picked up right where he left off. The tune was sad, heartbreaking even.

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A/N.: So guys, I did it. I passed all my exams, and I gift myself and you with a new chapter

I would like to thank you guys, your reviews mean a lot to me. Thanks to **high-functioning potterhead**, **Prothoe**, **Warm-Glow**, **Feyfangirl**, **April29Roses**, **Charlotte2May** and **Puky2012**. You are awesome!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The tablet crashed to the floor, tea spilled over the thick carpet. Mrs. Hudson fled from the room, tears in her eyes. Everything happened in a few seconds; John was too shocked to react in time. He heard Mrs. Hudson crying silently in the flat below.

The doctor got up and pushed his book on the desk with a little bit more force than necessary. He understood that Sherlock needed time to recover, he really did, but that didn't mean that the consulting detective was allowed to treat the people that cared about him the way he did.

John entered Sherlock's room without knocking. The detective stood with his back to John, a broken teacup rested on the floor and a dark stain marked the area wetted by tea and milk.

"Go away John. Bother someone else." Sherlock didn't even turn around to face him.

John hissed silently. "What has gotten into you? What did you do to Mrs. Hudson?"

"That sniveling woman was a nuisance." Sherlock's voice was cold. "There is only so much fussing one can cope with. She's my landlady, for god's sake, not my mother."

John bit his lip and closed the distance between them with two strides. He grabbed the younger mans shoulders and turned him forcefully around. "Sherlock, you can't go on like this."

An ugly sneer grated Sherlock's features. "Get your hands off me. Why do you think you have the right to tell me what to do!"

"I'm your friend you idiot. You are suffering, and I do not like seeing you suffer!"

Sherlock laughed dryly. "My friend? No. You are my flat mate, my occasional physician, but not my friend. Friendship requires trust and caring. You should know that, I can't go on playing dictionary for you all the time."

John cocked his head to the side. "I care about you, and I trust you. Doesn't that mean we are friends?"

Sherlock looked at him, eyes blazing with malice. "It has to be mutual, wouldn't you agree?"

Sherlock had never really understood the concept of friendship before John. He had never considered Mycroft a friend, because he was his brother. Mrs. Hudson was his landlady, a motherly figure in his life, but not a friend. Neither was Lestrade, whom he thought of as his handler, maybe even a colleague, but not a friend. In all fairness he felt most comfortable around Sally and Anderson, because he could deal with hate and ABSCHEU, those he was used to.

He had learnt to deal with resentment at a very early age. His mother had loved him and assured him countless of times that he was a precious child, gifted with unimaginable talents. He had believed her, every child would have, but then she couldn't stand being around his father any longer and left. Sherlock was still allowed to visit her every other weekend, but it wasn't the same.

Suddenly there was no one left who would comfort him when his schoolmates picked on him, stole his books, destroyed his homework or ruined his clothes. There was no one to tell him that people were intimidated by his gifts after his teacher called him a freak of nature in front of the whole class.

Worst of all, though, was that his home was no longer a sanctuary where he was shielded from the bitter experiences. His father had never really bothered him before, he had ignored his younger son, but now with his mother gone he seemed to take it out on Sherlock.

Mycroft had been the only stable thing in his life, his door always open. His older brother had always been there to hug him after an unpleasant event or to read him a story when Sherlock was upset. And then Mycroft had gone to uni and Sherlock was left alone in a world where pushing people away from him was the only thing he knew to do in order to be above all the bad things people said and did to him.

John felt several emotions rushing through him within a millisecond. Anger, of course. He balled his hand into a fist and was only inches away from actually striking Sherlock. Sadness, because he really had considered them friends. Desperation because he wanted to help Sherlock dealing with whatever his problem was and had no idea how.

He forced himself to breathe slowly while he was trying to figure out how to deal with the situation. Suddenly, realization dawned upon John. He had his hands still on Sherlocks shoulders, and that was the clue he had been searching for so desperately. Sherlock had no idea how to handle emotions, John knew that. Sherlock was a genius at pushing people away, using nothing more than his words. However, Sherlocks lack of experience concerning emotions was a dead giveaway.

He might insult John with every word, every phrase possible, trying to push him away, but he didn't show it. Truth be told, Sherlock was a gifted actor, he had everything working from him, the voice, the insults, the anger, the stare, everything. Except for one thing. Sherlock leant into the touch. John could feel him relax ever so slightly into his grip. John figured that Sherlock did that subconsciously and wasn't aware of his response to the physical contact.

John shook his friend slightly. "Sherlock, I want you to listen to me! Whatever happened, apparently you can't deal with it yourself. You are pushing everyone away who means anything to you, why? I can tell that you don't want to do it, but due to whatever reason you seem to think there is no other way. Let me in Sherlock. I can help you, but only if you let me!"

Sherlock looked at John. Neither man spoke for a minute and John finally broke into a smile. He had seen the short flicker of trust in Sherlock's eyes and it was enough for the moment. He pushed Sherlock down on his bed and raised an eyebrow. "So… do you want to tell me what got you so riled up?"

And Sherlock did.

* * *

**A/N.:** Here you go, I hope you like it and I'm looking forward to you reviews!

Enormous thanks to: **SomeoneSarah**, **Puky2012**, **Prothoe**, **high-functioning potterhead**! Your reviews mean a lot to me!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

John could hear Mrs. Hudsons soft sobs and it nearly broke his heart. After Sherlock had told the doctor everything, they agreed upon a few things: They would include Lestrade, the officer could help them and he was trained to do so without spooking others. True, it would be near to impossible to fool Moriarty, but he would keep his eyes and ears on Sherlock if the consulting detective kept the drama up, because the consulting criminal seemed to love seing Sherlock hurt. However, to make sure that their plan would work they had to tell as few people as possible. John had confronted Mrs. Hudson, told her that Sherlock was in a dark place at the moment and that he didn't mean what he said. Ever so brave Mrs. Hudson had smiled through her tears, nodded and left to brew fresh tea.

Johns phone rang and Sherlock picked exactly that moment to start playing the violin. "John. I have something you should see."

"I'm coming to the Yard, give me a few minutes."

"No, don't do that!" John stopped immediately. "We should meet somewhere else, I am pretty sure that Moriarty has eyes on the inside. Do you know the Espresso Room? Small and crowded."

John nodded even though no one could see him. Sherlock's tune turned into something slightly merrier. The doctor was surprised how relieved that made him feel. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Lestrade was already waiting for John at the Espresso Room. He spread a few files on the table. "Previously we assumed that Moriarty simply wanted to mess with Sherlock but I changed my mind. Look at this!" He pushed a file over to John. "Two weeks ago someone broke into the headquarter of Barclays and stole something from a private vault. It was impossible for us to locate the owner of the vault even though the bank keeps records, but one Mr. Richard Carmichael is an expert at hiding. We don't even know what was stolen, because the bank highly regards its customer's privacy."

"Why do you think it has something to do with Sherlock and Moriarty?"

"We found this calling card in the vault." The detective handed the calling card over to John.

John read it aloud. "What can you do without your lapdog? xxx JM" He put the card down. "You had two weeks and you didn't tell me? How could you?" He put his hand on the table with a loud 'bang'! Other customers were turning their heads and staring at them; Lestrade hissed annoyed and rolled his eyes.

"I didn't know if it was safe to tell you, with Sherlock acting so weird. I had no idea if Moriarty managed to bug your apartment or your phone. What was I supposed to do before I had all the facts? And you weren't really forthcoming either." All that was said in a quick whisper.

John closed his eyes for a second and rubbed his templates. "Neither was Sherlock. How did you know something was up?"

"I'm a detective for gods sake, we usually know when someone gets shot."

The two men stared at each for a while before John broke the silence. "So, you think that Moriarty challenged the Yard?"

Lestrade nodded gravely. "In a way, yes. I'm not quite sure why he has to play with Sherlock's psyche, though. I don't think that he only did it to make sure that Sherlock wouldn't help the Yard, there has to be something more. Do you think you could ask Sherlock about it? Maybe there's something he knows."

John shrugged. "He talks to no one these days." All Sherlock had done was giving John the blessing to share his problems with Lestrade. Sherlocks melodies had been all John could get from his flat mate since then. "So what do we do now?"

"Can you get Sherlock to help us with the case? We tried everything and we really don't know what to do."

"I'll try to talk to him, but I really don't know if I'll get through to him."

Lestrade smiled. "Thank you John. Here, take those with you." He gestured at the files. "Maybe he'll be more interested if he sees them."

John entered Bakerstreet precisely half an hour later. He smiled at Mrs. Hudson and hugged her quickly before advancing up to his flat. He stood in front of Sherlock's door for at least five minutes, imagining every possible scenario in his head. He knocked tentatively and wasn't surprised at all when he got no answer. He was surprised, though, that the door wasn't locked and misinterpreted it as a sign of Sherlock opening up more. He was severely disappointed when he entered the room and Sherlock was nowhere in sight. "Sherlock? Sherlock where are you?"

No answer.

John stormed out of the room and checked the rest of the flat but there was no consulting detective anywhere. "Sherlock?" Still nothing. John felt his heart rate increase. He went back to Sherlock's room and searched for any clue about his flat mates' whereabouts. A tight bond had formed around his chest and made breathing a lot more difficult, there was no way Moriarty had kidnapped Sherlock during the short time John spend outside the apartment.

Then, John found the letter.

_John,_

_I know you think that everything will be okay, but that is you, the constant optimist. There are situations you cannot control, no matter how hard you try. I don't have many friends but you are one of them, never forget that! I do not want to lose you. Even if that means I have to leave. Take care._

The letter wasn't signed, it didn't need to be. John crumbled the paper in his hand and threw it through the room. He feverishly pushed the buttons on his phone to call Sherlock, all the while muttering silent curses. John had installed his very own ringtone on Sherlock's phone shortly before the consulting detective had been shot, hearing it within the room made John feel sick. Sherlock had left his phone on the nightstand, the display showed a picture of a smiling John within the rolling hills of Dartmoor.

Sherlock wasn't far away. He had no proof that this was the precise moment when John uncovered his letter, but he had a feeling that it happened right now. The consulting detective sat down on a park bench, ran a hand through his unruly black locks and remembered.

_His teachers had never understood him and dealt with him in different ways. Some used every moment to make fun of him in front of the class; others ignored him or simply send him outside when they felt like it. The teacher he had when he was 13 years old had been different. She was a very friendly lady in her late fifties, concerned with the obviously malnourished overly intelligent boy in her class. She always treated him respect and encouraged him to ask questions, even if she mostly couldn't answer them. Young Sherlock began to trust his teacher; he was looking forward to going to school for the first time in years. That was before his father had a drink too much and pushed his son. Sherlock didn't want to go to school, due to his very visible black eye. His teacher had taken one look at him and decided that something had to be done. She called Sherlock's father immediately to ask what happened to the child. Holmes Sr. had naturally denied any accusations. Sherlock had looked up to her during the phone call, hoping that she could help him. She smiled at him after the phone call ended, ruffled his hair and said: "Everything is going to be okay!" _

_She was no longer there when Sherlock came to school on the next day. The young boy inquired about her absence and was told that she had been removed from her office after a very wealthy donor of the school had complained about her teaching methods. Sherlock was still young, but there was no doubt in his mind who the mysterious donor was. _

_Leaving John had been the hardest decision Sherlock had ever had to make. People who cared about him were either send away or left him and he didn't think that he could suffer through that with John. _

_A/N.: Sorry that it took so long, I started working a few more hours and have a few new responsibilities and that ate my time. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; I would like to know what you think. _

_Special thanks to: Puky2012, WelshNinja, Prothoe, Kiara21, high-functioning potterhead, hjohn302, WritingForVictory, SomeoneSarah and Alohilani Hudson!_

_Reviews will be answered personally if you've been signed in! _


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

John was pacing angrily. He would kill Sherlock once he got his hands on him; resurrect him only to kill him all over again.

"John, you have to calm down!"

"Calm down? How can I calm down? He's out there, without any backup. Do you know how close he came to being seriously hurt during our partnership? He could have been killed several times had I not been there. What was he thinking running off like that?" John balled his hands into fist and opened them helplessly. He remembered all the times Sherlock had done exactly the opposite of what he had asked of him, how could he not have learnt from that? He felt violently sick and had to lean heavily against the wall.

Lestrade looked at him sympathetically. "I have every available agent looking for Sherlock but we both know that it is impossible to locate him if he doesn't want to be found."

"I know, I know." John took up pacing again. "That bloody idiot. I shouldn't have let him out of my sight for a single second." He had a short flashback to his time in Afghanistan. One of his closest friends had died on the battlefield because John couldn't get to him in time, and he was not about to lose another friend because he wasn't quick enough.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at the doctor. "It is not your fault John." She rested her hand on his shoulder and felt him relax slightly. John and Lestrade had told Mrs. Hudson everything after Sherlocks escape and had planned on taking her into protective custody. Mrs. Hudson had been very adamant about not going to a safe house and was currently guarded at the Yard, in Lestrades office. "Sherlock cares for you and he has no idea how to deal with that, taking off seems the best option for him."

"I know." John's shoulders slumped. "Still, I feel that I should have done something."

Lestrade shook his head. "We are doing what we can, John."

The door to the office was opened forcefully and Sally strode in, with Anderson in tow. She nodded at John and Mrs. Hudson before looking at her boss and handing him a folder. "We found something."

Lestrade looked the file over with John reading it from behind him.

"A man fitting Sherlocks description entered an empty warehouse," explained Sally. "The CCTV captured him from behind, but I'm pretty sure that it is Sherlock." John frowned, he had never before heard Sally referring to the consulting detective with anything other than his full name, Sherlock Holmes, or simply freak.

"We looked over the surveillance videos from the last few days," continued Sally and pulled a photo out of the folder. "We believe that this is Jim Moriarty."

John felt his heart rate rise. The man in the pictures could very well be Moriarty; most likely Sherlock had somehow gotten this information from his homeless network.

Lestrade nodded slowly. "Okay. Anderson get Dimmock to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson while we are gone, and meet us in the parking garage. Sally, John, let's go!"

Wonders never ceased and Anderson didn't complain. "I already acquisitioned a car," explained the forensic scientist. He shrugged when everyone turned to stare at him. "I might not like him but I don't want to see him killed either."

John nodded at him and quickly grabbed his shoulder in a thankful motion.

The drive was uneventful, everyone was thinking about what lay ahead of them. The warehouse could be empty or house the body of their consulting detective, and they were hoping that it would be neither.

Sally, John and Lestrades had their guns out, Anderson safely behind them. The forensic tec had insisted on coming with them and no one was going to deny it to him. John opened the door and they slipped inside. It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the half-light within the warehouse before they became disappointed. It was quite obvious that the no one except them was there. They canvased the whole area without finding something that seemed important to the Yard Agents.

John, however, found a small colorful wrapping paper that seemed slightly out of place in the abandoned warehouse. What really caught John's eyes was the small doodled sign on it. He had seen Sherlock scribble it on everything in their apartment when he was either bored or heavily concentrating on something. "I'm coming Sherlock," whispered the doctor. "Hang in there, I'll find you and help you with Moriarty, no matter if you like it or not."

Anderson took one look at the paper and promised to find out if it had any relevance to Sherlocks disappearance.

* * *

Sherlock had indeed entered the abandoned warehouse approximately an hour before the Yard agents became aware of its existence. His homeless network had tipped him off; they were all out looking for Moriarty. The consulting criminal had been long gone when Sherlock arrived.

The consulting detective was currently perched on a low wall near to the warehouse. He observed the arrival and departure of John and the agents. Sherlock had been honestly surprised when he saw Sally and Anderson with them, he couldn't tell why they were there and if their intentions were honorable or not.

_Fifteen year old Sherlock Holmes sat on the ground in a dark, usually abandoned alley. His right eye was swollen shut and he sported at least three broken ribs. Pain was nothing new for the teenager, he had a strangely detached relationship with it and it bothered him way less than anyone would think. _

_Rain began to pour slowly and Sherlock wiped wet hair out of his eyes. "Why are you still here?"_

_His classmate, Ryker, biggest bully in the school, stood opposite from him, arms crossed before his chest, and smirked. "I like watching you suffer." _

_Sherlock knew that he wasn't referring to the physical pain. He could deal with it, no problem, because it didn't confuse him. _

"_Why did you pretend to come and help me?" Sherlock tried to understand._

_The bully laughed. He was only partially responsible for the pain Sherlock was currently experiencing, having stumbled over a group of young adults beating the crap out of the teenager. Ryker had driven them away with nothing more than his reputation. They let go of Sherlock and left as quickly as possible, leaving the two young men alone in the alley. _

"_I did help you," clarified Ryker. "They are no longer beating you up, right?"_

_Sherlock shrugged and hissed, broken ribs weren't particularly comfortable. _

"_Did you really think that I was going to help you? You are so naïve, Sherlock." Ryker had waited for the others to disappear before he laid a few punches on Sherlock himself. _

_Sherlock breathed harder. He should have known. Someone who was usually hostile towards him would never change his attitude. Never. _

Sherlock shuddered to shake the memory. His eyes travelled over the assembled group. John and Lestrade, they'd never been hostile, but it was a different story with Sally and Anderson. He watched them driving away, deciding that the two were up to no good, they couldn't have been here because they cared for him.

He fished the tiny memory stick out of his pocket and looked at it. Moriraty had left the device behind and Sherlock was pretty sure that it contained a trap of some sorts. He still had every intention of watching the contents.

* * *

**A/N**.: Here you go, another one! I look forward to your reviews, and, as usually, I'm going to answer all of them if possible. Criticism is as always appreciated.

Thanks to: **hjohn302**, **Kiara21**, **SomeoneSarah**, **gemstone1234**, **Prothoe** and **Puky2012**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Sherlock couldn't suppress the groan escaping his lips when he finally regained consciousness. Being a genius at deceiving, that worried him a lot more than the searing pain at the back of his head. The consulting detective opened his eyes to survey his surroundings, since pretending to be passed out was no longer an option thanks to his lack of self-control. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light in the room. Sherlock wished he could rub his temples, he felt a migraine settling in, but his hands being bound behind his back prevented him from doing so. Sherlock groaned softly as the memories began to come back.

The memory drive had indeed been a message from Moriarty; it contained one lonely jpeg file. The file showed a map of London with certain streets and buildings circled in red. Everything highlighted was named after a more or less famous personality and it had taken Sherlock a few minutes of concentration and a short internet research until he stumbled upon the common denominator.

Every one of those historic personalities was buried at Highgate Cemetary. Sherlock had marked their gravesites on a map of the famous and allegedly haunted Cemetary and they roughly represented an arrow pointing at a small guard house that had been uninhabited for the last two years due to staff savings. Sherlock stared at the image file for a little while longer before he shut down the computer in the public library. He was pretty sure that he was walking into a trap.

"I see you awoke. Good morning sunshine." Moriarty had entered quietly and strode towards his captive.

"You didn't have to take a club to my head," said Sherlock conversationally. "You wouldn't have had to wait for me to wake up."

Moriraty shrugged. "So you figured it out. I wasn't sure you would",

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in perfect motion. "A child could have figured it out."

Moriarty laughed and dragged a chair over to his prisoner. "I agree with you. The mind of a child is full of potential, pity that most of it is lost when they reach adulthood. An ordinary man, however, would have stopped looking once he figured out the guard house."

Sherlock looked at his nemesis. "I'm not an ordinary man." He seemed appalled by the thought alone.

Moriarty chuckled. "You and me neither. John, however, is one. I'm pretty sure that he's currently searching through the guard house, desperate to be reunited with you."

The men looked at each other for a while.

"It was rather obvious." Sherlock had broken the silence. He was probably the only person who could look so suave and in control of the situation while chained to a chair.

Moriarty put his chin on his fists and regarded the consulting detective with interest. "Go on, enlighten me." He waved at the other man. "From one professional to the other."

"Once put into the right order, the initials of the names spell Thomson Alley quite clearly." Sherlock's temples were itching and the migraine was getting stronger by the minute.

Moriarty had picked up on that. "It annoys you, doesn't it?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and Moriarty's grin widened. The consulting criminal got up and started pacing. He circled Sherlock and easily observed the slight tension in Sherlock's shoulder muscles that increased every time he entered Sherlock's blind spot. "Control," whispered Moriarty in his enemy's ear and Sherlock shuddered. "You hate losing it, don't you? Because it reminds you of so much."

Sherlock tried, he really did, but it was impossible for him not to flinch when Moriarty grabbed his shoulders. "You remember that moment when you lost control?" Moriarty put extra weight on the last three words and laughed gleefully as Sherlock immediately stiffened; the sound contrasting eerily with his words.

Moriarty moved back in Sherlock's field of vision. He pulled a syringe out of his pocket, and smiled when Sherlock's pupils widened. "Do you know what's the beauty with you, Sherlock, dear? There's one thing..." he stopped himself and stared pensively at Sherlock for a few seconds. "No, scratch that. There are three things, actually. One" He raised one finger. "Your excessive nosiness, borderline idiotic I might add, is your downfall. Two." A second finger followed. "Your overconfidence that made you come alone without telling anyone about it. And third." Predictably, another finger was raised. "You don't react to pain as an ordinary person would." Moriarty pressed his fist against Sherlock's half healed bullet wound.

The consulting detective breathed in sharply and closed his eyes for a second. "Obviously," he pressed the word out as his heart rate increased. He managed a small smile, taking comfort in the fact that Moriarty hadn't been completely correct. He hadn't come alone because he was overconfident, but because he didn't want to put someone else in danger.

Moriarty chuckled and touched Sherlocks cheek. "Always so proud. Your biggest asset is also your biggest weakness, my friend. That over achieving mind of yours, never shutting down, never staying still, constantly thinking, mulling things over. I would know. If I put a memory in there, it will spiral, causing you more pain than I could ever physically inflict on you. Remember, Sherlock. Remember when you lost control, big time."

Moriarty put the syringe on a small stool in front of the consulting detective and petted his head. "Isn't it fascinating that I don't even have to use this? Have fun now!" He left Sherlock alone with his thoughts in the dark.

_Sherlock had been barely twenty years old when he found himself in a back alley, staring at the syringe in his hand. He had done drugs before, gradually moving through differently intensive substances; he was fully aware that the substance in his hands would be a lot stronger than everything he had ever tasted. _

_Sherlock shuddered and pulled his thin jacket tighter around him to protect himself from the ice cold wind. It had been a few difficult weeks at uni; the young man had felt overwhelmed with all the people and their secrets that were far too obvious to him. The only thing he wished for was for everyone to shut up, to gain a few precious moments of silence and calm. He knew that the drug would provide it; it magically put him in a state where he did no longer care about anything. _

_Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket. His hand trembled when he tried to push the correct buttons and it took him four attempts until he successfully managed to call Mycroft. The phone rang for minutes and Sherlock felt his last strength slip away. It had taken a lot out of him to actually call Mycroft, to admit that he needed help. His brother, the only actual constant in his young life could help him stop this madness before he got in too deep. However, Mycroft didn't answer his phone and Sherlock was left alone in the dark. _

_The young man moved the syringe before his eyes, hands trembling so strongly that he couldn't see the needle clearly. He swallowed hard and lost the last remnants of control over his own actions as he injected the drug into his bloodstream._

* * *

John tapped the map in front of him impatiently. Anderson had identified the colorful paper as chocolate wrapping paper; the partial logo on it belonged to the public library. John had been to the library showing a picture of Sherlock around and a helpful employee led him to the computer Sherlock had accessed.

John found the memory stick and the map of Highgate Cemetary. John had passed the information on to Lestrade and they searched through the whole guard house without finding anything. The doctor's frustration had increased steadily over the last hours and he was ready to finally catch a break. He continued to stare at the image file on the memory stick, rubbing his temples. There had to be more information.

* * *

**A/N**.: Here you go guys, another chapter, I hope you like that one too. Please let me know what you are thinking. And I have a big favor to ask of those of you who are native speakers. I have to take the IELTS exam next month for my graduate studies application and I would appreciate some constructive criticism. How else can I get better?

Thanks to all of you who reviewed the last chapter!


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